


Lessons From My Father

by soulless_lover



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Discipline, Family, Gen, Original Character(s), Parental Love, Underage Smoking, Whipping, Young Ezio - Freeform, Young Ezio Is A Precious Cinnamon Bun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:50:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9468122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulless_lover/pseuds/soulless_lover
Summary: Ezio was now fairly sure he was in trouble. He was mildly nauseated, his head felt as though he'd been spinning in circles for hours, and his throat was getting raw. “Father–” he began, but Giovanni silenced him.“You willsmoke your tobacco, Ezio.I am your father, and you will do as I say. Do you understand this?”The boy bit his lip to smother a very ill-advised remark and swallowed hard. Giovanni was his father, and he deserved to be obeyed and treated with great respect... so what else could he do but smoke the cigarette?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silverwing26](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverwing26/gifts).



Firenze, 1471.

It was a warm summer afternoon not long past Ezio Auditore's twelfth birthday; the city was bustling, the sun was shining, and Ezio had a pouch full of florins to spend as he liked. He was in a very good mood, whistling as he walked through the market, looking into shops and over vendors' tables – when he heard a familiar voice call out to him.

“Ezio! Ezio Auditore!”

Ezio looked up to see a red-haired boy he knew fairly well approaching him eagerly. “Antonio! How are you?”

“Ah! Never mind me – how was your birthday?” Antonio gestured for Ezio to follow him, and the two boys sat together on a low wall, chatting lightly; Antonio eventually produced an elaborately engraved silver case and opened it to reveal several cigarettes wrapped in a brownish paper. “Would you like to smoke?”

Ezio blinked. He had never smoked before, and he'd also never seen anyone smoke anything wrapped in paper. “What is this?”

“Tobacco. My father bought it from a Turkish merchant yesterday.” Antonio withdrew one of the cigarettes and held it out to his friend. “Here, _amico._ Consider it a belated gift for your birthday.”

Not wanting to be rude, but still somewhat doubtful, Ezio took the proffered cigarette and looked at it curiously. “I thought tobacco was supposed to be smoked in a pipe.”

The other boy rolled his eyes dismissively. “Only _old_ men smoke a pipe, Ezio.”

Ezio considered this. His uncle Mario smoked a pipe on occasion, and he had perhaps forty years, which was old, wasn't it? “So the _young_ men smoke like this instead?”

“ _Si_. I have been smoking since yesterday, and _I_ am a young man.”

“You have no more years than I do!” Ezio replied, somewhat offended.

“That is true, _amico_. But I _smoke_.” Antonio took out a pair of small, beautifully carved stones made of flint, put a drop of oil on the hollowed end of one, then struck it with the other, producing a quick, bright flame that burned off quickly and blackened the stone; using this, he lit first his own cigarette for demonstration, and then Ezio's. “Here, I will show you.” Ezio watched carefully as his companion took a long drag, drew the smoke into his lungs, and then exhaled a thick cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. “Try it.”

Ezio attempted to imitate Antonio's long, deep pull on the cigarette – and promptly bent over, coughing so violently a few passersby paused to look their way. “I – I do not think” - he paused to cough again - “I am doing this correctly.”

To Antonio's credit, he resisted the urge to laugh and instead redemonstrated the “proper” technique, which the highly embarrassed Ezio was grateful for; after a few more tries and a few more half-suppressed coughs, the young Auditore had caught on so well that he'd begun smoking too fast, which made him unsettlingly lightheaded. Noticing this, Antonio suggested that he slow down. “Savor it, Ezio, like a good _vino_.”

Ezio followed his friend's instructions, and after a few more tries, he was feeling rather accomplished and adult, smoking and savoring like a true man of the world. He was beginning to wonder why he had not tried this before.

The clock tower rang out very suddenly, and Antonio leapt to his feet. “Ah! _Merda!_ I am late! My father will _kill_ me if I miss another lesson!” 

Ezio repaid his friend's earlier social grace and kindness by not pointing out his very non-adult behavior, and as if in thanks, the boy took a half-dozen cigarettes from the little silver case and handed them to Ezio, smiling warmly despite his hurry. “What is-” Ezio began, but Antonio waved him off.

“Part of your birthday gift. Enjoy them, _amico mio_.” Ezio thanked him graciously for the present, but the boy dismissed him again. “Yes, yes - but you are my friend, and you would do the same for me.” He gave Ezio's shoulder a brotherly punch and turned to leave. “And now I _must_ go!” And with that, he rushed off in the direction of his family's palazzo, cursing vaguely in the distance.

Ezio slipped the cigarettes into his leather hip pouch, then decided it would be best to buy a case similar to Antonio's to put them in, to prevent them from being crushed or broken before he could smoke them; however, neither the silversmith nor the smoke-shop had such a thing on hand to sell, and a custom-made case would take a few days, at the very least, to prepare. He decided to wait, to better consider the purchase, and instead bought a small set of flints and a tiny vial of oil – which the seller at the smoke-shop made very clear was to be carried in a _different_ pouch than the flint at all times. Feeling quite mature, the young Auditore assured the man he would follow his instructions responsibly, handed over his birthday florins, and pointedly slipped his purchases into the leather pouches on opposite sides of his belt.

“You are young Ezio Auditore, _si_?” the shopkeep asked, smiling down over the counter at the swaggering boy with the long brown hair and charming smile.

_“Si,”_ Ezio answered proudly. “How did you know?”

The man chuckled softly. “I know your father – you resemble him very much.”

Deeply honored by this comparison, Ezio beamed as he replied, “I thank you for the compliment. _Grazie_.”

As he was turning to leave, the seller called out to him: “ _Ser_ Ezio – if I may offer a bit of advice...”

The boy turned back around. “Of course.”

“Do not let your father see you smoking.” His tone was serious.

Ezio raised an eyebrow. Giovanni Auditore was a strict father, but what reason would he have to prevent his son from smoking? It was a _manly_ pastime, was it not? Even Giovanni's own brother, Ezio's uncle Mario, smoked a pipe every now and then, so it couldn't be a _bad_ thing, could it? True, he had never seen his father smoke – not a pipe, not a cigarette, not even a medicinal remedy – but what objection could he have? _Perhaps this seller doesn't know my father as well as he says he does,_ Ezio reasoned, _and he is just trying to win my patronage._

“Thank you for your counsel,” the boy finally managed to say, and left the shop quickly.

Once outside, he used his new flint to light another cigarette, and strolled home with a bit more swagger in his step, his chin high, smoking and savoring and smiling at everyone he crossed paths with; most of the other citizens of Firenze regarded him with a sort of fond smile, and a few girls waved at him, much to his delight. He felt as though he were the tallest, strongest, most invincible young man on the Earth that day, and he had only twelve years! _Do I really resemble my father so much?_ he thought as he walked toward the Palazzo Auditore, the cigarette warm and sweet between his lips. _I wonder if I will look more and more like him as I age. I suppose I do resemble him at least a bit – I am the only one of his children to have his brown hair, and I **suppose** it is getting a bit long, like his..._ The truth was that Ezio, who admired his father very much, had begun intentionally growing his hair longer, in a not-quite-subconscious imitation of Giovanni's flowing, elegant hairstyle – but he wasn't quite ready to admit this to himself just yet. 

When he was nearly home, an elderly woman Ezio didn't know stopped him in the street and asked him to lift a crate into a wagon for her; he needed both hands for this task, so he held the burning cigarette between his lips as he lifted the wooden crate full of produce and got it into its proper place. The result of this was that he had to blink a lot of smoke out of his eyes as he bent and moved, and his nostrils felt seared. He did his very best to maintain his composure, however, and by the time the crate was securely loaded, he was trying to cough and wipe his eyes as subtly as possible.

“Oh, _grazie, Ser_ Ezio,” the woman said, and handed him an apple from her cart.

“How did you know my name?” Ezio asked, though he thought he probably knew the answer already. “Forgive me if we have met before, but I do not remember you.”

The old lady's wrinkled face curved into a genial smile. “You are the son of Giovanni Auditore, are you not?”

“I am,” Ezio said, with obvious pride – and a new-found certainty that yes, he really did resemble his father.

“I have known your father many years,” she said, watching with a strange sparkle in her eye as Ezio tried to discreetly puff his cigarette to keep it alight and not appear rude at the same time. “If I may, _Ser_ Ezio... it would be unwise to let him see you smoking.”

Now somewhat apprehensive but still not fully convinced he should be alarmed, Ezio frowned slightly. _Another one? I wonder if there's something to this..._

Seeing the skepticism on the young Auditore's face, the woman turned back to her cart with a little noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “Ah! Pay me no mind, young _ser_ \- it is just an old lady's idle talk...”

By the time Ezio reached the Palazzo Auditore, he had nearly finished the cigarette; he walked through the great arched portico and into the front hall, still smoking, and was headed towards the staircase to go up to his rooms when he was approached by his younger sister, Claudia. “Ezio!” she cried, throwing her arms around him in greeting. “You went to the _mercato_ without me? How cruel!” Her tone was more teasing than tantrum, but she recoiled with genuine distaste when she realized he was smoking. “Ezio!” she scolded, pinching her button nose. “What are you doing?”

“I am only smoking,” her hapless brother protested with as innocent an expression as he could muster. “Many men smoke.”

“But it _smells_ , Ezio! You will make the entire palazzo smell bad!” 

_She has only ten years,_ Ezio thought, trying hard not to laugh, _but already she is so much like our mother._ “The palazzo is very large, Claudia – no one will smell anything unless they are right next to me... and it does not smell bad, it smells like smoke. Things smell like smoke when they burn.”

Claudia folded her arms and stalked off toward the courtyard, calling over her shoulder: “I'll be kind to you and not tell Father. You can repay me later.”

Ezio went up to his rooms, shut the door, and sat down at his writing desk; he took the five remaining cigarettes from his pouch and laid them atop it, then also set out his flint and vial of oil. He was admiring them and preparing to light another cigarette, considering whether or not a proper case was a wise investment, when there was a knock at the door.

“Ezio.” It was Giovanni, whom Ezio had not known was home from the bank that afternoon.

_”Si,_ Papa! Please, come in.” The younger Auditore stood respectfully as his father entered the room and shut the door behind him. 

Giovanni Auditore looked at his son, noting the way the boy's small, slim fingers shook ever so slightly around the cigarette they held, the way it was not quite concealed behind his thigh, as though he'd considered hiding it and then tried to play it off casually. _Which is likely what happened,_ Giovanni thought with a great deal of amusement, _because I would have done the same at his age._ “Sit with me, my son.” He pulled over a side chair, gesturing for Ezio to sit at his desk again, and watched as the boy lit another cigarette with the one he'd just finished. “Ezio, what are you doing?”

“I am... smoking, Father?” Ezio replied hesitantly. The expression on the elder Auditore's face had the boy scrambling to add, “It is tobacco, from a Turkish merchant.” Ezio could practically feel that stern gaze boring into his skull, and it was with great effort that he managed not to squirm on the spot. 

“I see. Where did you get this?” Giovanni's tone was warm, but there was a steely edge to it that Ezio found unnerving.

“My friend gave it to me as a birthday gift, Papa,” the boy began, then amended for honesty's sake, “Well, that is, he gave me the tobacco, and I bought the flint myself. It was Antonio Marco – do you remember him?”

Giovanni did indeed remember Antonio, the son of a wealthy import merchant and a fiery-haired beauty he had known well in his much younger days. “Yes, I remember – and a flint is certainly a useful tool,” he agreed, biting the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. “I have one myself.”

Ezio offered his father a cigarette, his expression only betraying his relief a little bit. “Would you like one?”

Giovanni's austere composure very nearly cracked as he looked at his son's wide, guileless eyes, his wind-tousled hair, and that eager, cheeky smile wrapped around a smoking roll of Turkish tobacco. _Madonna mia,_ he thought with a great surge of mirth and pride, _it is like looking back in time at myself._ “I am honored that you'd offer to share your treasured birthday gift with me, Ezio,” he said, as soon as he was sure he could speak again without laughing. “ _Grazie_ – but no thank you, I do not smoke.” 

There was a short pause, during which the younger Auditore found himself trying to discern if he was about to be scolded or not, and then wondering if the nervousness showed on his face. It did. “Oh.” It was all the boy could think to say. 

Giovanni sat back in his chair. “You are smoking too slowly, Ezio; your tobacco will stop burning. Smoke it more quickly.”

“ _Si,_ Papa.” Ezio obeyed, taking shorter, quicker puffs from the cigarette, though it made him dizzy. 

The elder Auditore just sat there, his keen eyes watching closely. “Smoke it more quickly, Ezio.”

The boy looked up at his father. He was starting to feel a bit queasy, but Giovanni's tone brooked no denial, so he tried again to smoke the tobacco as quickly as possible without hyperventilating. He succeeded, but only just, and was honestly glad when he'd finished the cigarette; he was about to snuff the end out in a small glass dish on the desk when a large hand reached out and took hold of his wrist, stopping him. Ezio did not dare to look up this time, his slightly-swimming gaze focused intently on his father's surprisingly strong fingers and the heavy gold signet ring he wore. “F-Father?” he ventured after a moment, certain his rapid heartbeat was audible.

“You still have four more, Ezio,” Giovanni said, his voice firm. “Smoke them.”

“Yes, Papa.” His wrist was released, and Ezio did as he was told, lighting another cigarette with the previous one, and then, as he reached toward the glass dish again, he risked a questioning glance at his father, to be sure he was allowed to stub out the remainder. Giovanni nodded shortly, which Ezio took as permission, and quickly snuffed the old cigarette, returning his attention to the newer one. He tried to smoke it more slowly, to reduce the disconcerting whirling sensation, but to no avail.

“Smoke it more quickly, Ezio.”

“I... I do not feel very well, Papa.” 

“Ezio,” Giovanni said, in a commanding tone that compelled the boy to look at him. “Smoke your tobacco.”

Ezio was now fairly sure he was in trouble. He was mildly nauseated, his head felt as though he'd been spinning in circles for hours, and his throat was getting raw. “Father–” he began, but Giovanni silenced him.

“You will _smoke your tobacco, Ezio._ I am your father, and you will do as I say. Do you understand this?”

The boy bit his lip to smother a very ill-advised remark and swallowed hard. Giovanni was his father, and he deserved to be obeyed and treated with great respect... so what else could he do but smoke the cigarette?

By the end of another very long and uncomfortably silent smoke-and-stare, Ezio was quite certain he was turning green; he was so nauseated he was sure he'd vomit at any moment, his tongue like a dry strip of old leather in his mouth, and the constant vertigo wasn't helping with the horrible sick feeling, either. He reached out to snub the remainder in the dish, and again Giovanni stopped him, though this time with only a single word:

_“Ezio.”_

The boy's anxious stomach turned over, but he lit yet another cigarette, drawing the smoke into his lungs cautiously; after two or three puffs, the elder Auditore spoke again: “Smoke it more quickly, Ezio.”

Ezio swallowed again, hoping he could force his breakfast back down through the power of sheer will. “But – but Papa, I think I am going to be sick.”

Giovanni raised an eyebrow. “If you are sick, Ezio,” he said sternly, “then you will clean it up. Smoke your tobacco. Do it now, quickly.”

Ezio struggled valiantly to obey despite his growing sense of dread, and by the time he'd finally finished _that_ cigarette, he knew – absolutely _knew_ – that if he took one more puff, he wouldn't be able to hold himself together any longer. He reached for the glass tray, hoping against hope that his normally gentle father would take pity on him, but one glance at Giovanni's unrelenting expression dashed that notion quickly.

“There are two left, Ezio. Smoke them.”

The younger Auditore picked up another cigarette and lit it with shaking hands; he was beginning to sweat; his mouth suddenly filled with saliva; his face tingled in a strange and unpleasant way... and then he promptly threw up all over the floor. 

He paused, still bent over in the chair, gasping for air; when the wave of nausea passed, he heard his father ask quietly: “Are you all right?”

“Yes, Father,” Ezio panted, straightening to sit upright again.

_“Va bene,”_ Giovanni replied. “Smoke your tobacco.”

Ezio gaped incredulously for three full seconds before he realized the man was serious. “P–Papa,” he blurted, “I cannot...” He stopped the instant the elder Auditore's mouth hardened into a thin, grim line. “Ugh. _Si,_ Papa.” 

He managed another three puffs before he threw up again, this time all over the floor _and_ Giovanni's expensive suede boots.

“Ezio.”

The boy sat up and regarded his father blearily. “Yes, Papa.”

“Are you all right?” There was a note of concern in Giovanni's voice, but Ezio pulled himself together and responded bravely:

“Yes, Papa.”

_“Bene.”_ Giovanni said, striving to keep the laughter out of his tone. _Stubborn, foolhardy little **ragazzo** ,_ he thought. _Just like his father was._ “Then smoke your tobacco.”

Ezio stifled a groan. _“Si,_ Papa.” The boy puffed his way through the rest of the cigarette, then looked up at his father, who was holding out the final roll of tobacco.

“There is one more, Ezio. Smoke it.”

Ezio took the cigarette and lit it resolutely, snuffed the old one, then began to smoke very quickly, hoping if he just persevered and puffed through to the end without inhaling too deeply, he could burn through the tobacco without vomiting again.

He made it through less than half a dozen puffs before he threw up all over his _own_ boots.

Pale and glistening with sweat, Ezio looked up at his father helplessly, his pleading eyes so full of remorse that Giovanni finally relented, taking the last half of the cigarette from his son's hand and depositing it into the tin cup of water on the easel by the window.

Reaching into a pocket, Giovanni took out a handkerchief and handed it to Ezio, who was regarding him with a mixture of relief and queasiness. “Here. Wipe your mouth.”

The boy did so gratefully, the arrogant expression he'd previously worn now replaced by one of contrition and perhaps a tiny bit of shame. “Thank you, Father.”

Giovanni moved forward in his chair and placed a very gentle hand under his son's chin, tipping his face upward. “Look at me, my son.” When he was certain Ezio was all right and that he had the boy's full attention, he continued softly: “Now – I want you to go down to the kitchens, fetch a bucket of hot water, a scrubbing brush, and a pan, and then you will come back here and clean this floor. Then, you will clean your boots. Then, you will clean mine. When you are finished, you will bring my boots to my study. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

Giovanni stood and removed his boots, then turned over the hourglass on top of Ezio's dressing-table. “You have one hour.” With that, he walked out the door, leaving the flustered boy staring after him in bewilderment.

_Clean the floor?_ Ezio thought. _I do not know how to do this – I've never cleaned a floor in all my life!_ He glanced at the hourglass, the fine grains of sand falling at an alarmingly fast pace, then took off his boots and hurried down to the kitchens in stocking-feet without further delay.

He decided the best course of action would be to ask one of the maids what to do, so he went to Annetta, his family's most loyal servant and his personal favorite of the maids. She was kind and hardworking, and several times she had bathed the feverish forehead of Ezio's younger brother Petruccio, who had a weak constitution and was often bedridden with one illness or another; her unwavering devotion to her little charge allowed Ezio's mother, Maria, a chance to rest, knowing her child was well guarded, so that she could return to his bedside stronger. Yes, Annetta was without a doubt the best choice: she was clever, knowledgeable, sympathetic, and could keep a secret.

He found her plucking fowl for the evening's dinner, humming a merry tune. “Annetta!”

She blinked when she saw him, taken aback by his damp brow and pale complexion. “Ah! _Messer_ Ezio! What is it? You are so pale...” She reached out a solicitous hand to touch his face, which made him blush, bringing a bit of color back into his cheeks.

“My father has sent me to get a bucket of hot water, a scrubbing brush, and a pan,” he explained somewhat sheepishly. “I – I was sick, and I must clean the floor.”

Annetta couldn't hide the look of shock that crossed her face. “Your father has told you to do this? But that is unfair – if you are sick, it is not your fault.” She took the kettle off the fire and poured a steaming stream of hot water into a wooden bucket, then threw in some lye. “I will come and clean your floor, _Messer_ Ezio.”

Mortified, the boy admitted that he'd been sick because he'd smoked too much tobacco, and without a single question, Annetta held out the pail of water, the scrub brush, and the pan. “Thank you, Annetta,” Ezio mumbled, his ears hot. _”Grazie.”_

“I would like to help you, _Messer_ Ezio,” she said, and she truly meant it. “However, in this case I do not think your father would want me to. I am sorry.”

Ezio nodded. “It is fine, Annetta. But could you tell me – how do I clean a floor?”

The maid gave him detailed instructions on how to do the task, advising him to brush with the direction of the woodgrain on the wooden parts of the floor, and to be sure to get into all the cracks and crevices in the areas paved in stone; he listened carefully, then thanked her again for her help and returned to his rooms. 

_”Merda,”_ he swore when he saw how low the sand in the top of the hourglass had fallen; he knelt on the floor and began to brush the chunkier bits of vomit into the pan with the edge of the brush... and it was so absolutely disgusting that he vomited again. Fortunately, there was very little left in his stomach and he had the presence of mind to aim for the pan, so he supposed it wasn't _that_ bad. It certainly could have been worse.

When he had finished scrubbing the floor – making sure to follow Annetta's instructions to the letter – Ezio looked up at the hourglass, and to his horror, the sand had already run out. How long had it been? He had no idea – and he still had to clean two pairs of boots. He quickly decided to clean Giovanni's boots first, so that he could bring them to his study sooner; realizing he didn't have time to go and ask a servant how to do such a thing, he made the best of it that he could and guessed. Once he'd finished his task, he checked to be sure the boots were properly cleaned, and although there wasn't a speck of filth on them anywhere, the suede just... looked... a bit... off. _It looks like Claudia's cat has gone a round or two with it, that is what it looks like,_ Ezio thought, rather sulkily. _Father is not going to like this._ Still, the boots were clean and free of vomit, so the boy said a hasty prayer and hurried to Giovanni's study with them.

The door was open, and Ezio paused a moment to look at his father, who was sitting in a large arm-chair beside his massive marble-topped banker's desk; the lion heads that adorned the arms of the great chair matched the stone ones carved into the mantel above the fireplace, and when Giovanni noticed him standing in the doorway, he stood – and Ezio wondered how he had ever thought himself tall. He was about to say something, make some awkward greeting, he wasn't exactly sure – and then decided it might be best to wait until his father spoke first. Fortunately, it didn't take long.

“Ezio. Come in, my son, and close the door.” To the boy's great relief, although Giovanni's tone was still serious, his manner was just as affectionate as ever. “Have you finished cleaning my boots?”

“Yes, Father.” Ezio did as he was told, then came to stand beside the desk, boots in hand. “But... they are...” He stopped, unsure how to continue. “They are... not quite right.”

Giovanni took the boots and looked them over. “Ezio.”

The boy bit his lip nervously. “Yes, Papa?”

“You have ruined my boots.” Giovanni looked up from the bedraggled suede, saw the truly apologetic look on his poor son's face, and sighed. “Did you ruin your boots as well?”

Ezio considered. He'd been told to clean his own boots first, so if he admitted that he hadn't cleaned them yet, he'd be admitting to blatant disobedience – which would likely not turn out well for him. However, if he lied and said he had, Giovanni would very likely ask to see them, and then Ezio would be caught lying to his father, which would most certainly turn out much, _much_ worse for him. 

He'd only lied to Giovanni once in his life, a few years earlier; when he'd been found out, Ezio had not only been scolded severely for the misdeed, but his father had also taken the tutor's switch to the backs of the boy's legs for lying about it. Ezio had taken the strokes bravely, bracing himself against the marble fireplace in steadfast silence, and although the blows were not very harsh – and the switch didn't hurt _terribly_ through his leggings – the shame of having lied to his father stung far worse than any punishment he could have suffered. Afterward, Giovanni had knelt beside his small son and embraced him fondly, and finally Ezio's imperturbability had shattered, leaving him sniffling into the front of Giovanni's tunic. He had never, ever lied to his father after that, and he firmly decided that he was not going to try it again.

“I did not clean my boots, Papa.” Ezio belatedly realized that he was still in his stocking-feet, and he shifted his stance to hide one foot behind the other, looking thoroughly guilty.

Giovanni's eyebrow quirked. “I told you to clean your own boots first, Ezio.”

_“Si,_ Papa.”

“Why have you disobeyed me, my son?” Giovanni did not sound angry, but he looked exasperated and genuinely hurt, which nearly broke Ezio's heart.

“I am sorry, Papa,” the boy burst out, tears welling in his eyes. “I did not know how to clean a floor and...” He related the entire story in a breathless rush, swiping at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “I did not know how long it had been, so I thought it best to come to you as quickly as possible. It was not done out of rebellion, Papa, I swear it!”

“All right, Ezio, all right.” Giovanni set the boots aside and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. “Calm yourself, _ragazzo_. Now then – look at me, Ezio – go and clean your boots, and then bring them to me. Do it quickly, not a word.”

Ezio obeyed immediately, turning on his heel and practically running out the door, and Giovanni sat back in his chair again with a sigh.

Back in his rooms, the younger Auditore made quick work of cleaning his own boots, and – just as expected – they turned out looking no less mauled than the first pair. He returned to his father's study and handed over the boots for inspection.

“Ezio.”

“Yes, Father?”

Giovanni sighed again, deeply. “You have ruined _your_ boots.”

Ezio squirmed uncomfortably. _“Si,_ Papa.”

The elder Auditore lowered his head and put one hand to his brow, hiding most of his face from Ezio's sight; he stayed that way for a long, long time, and the boy began to wonder: _What is going on in there? Is he plotting my death? Is he trying not to lose his temper? What do I do if he stays that way forever?_ Of course this was nonsense, but Ezio had never seen his father in such a perplexed state, and he was wholly unsure what to do.

“Ezio,” Giovanni asked without looking up, “did you clean the boots with the same brush you used to clean the floor?”

Ezio was now quite uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he resisted the _extremely_ ill-advised urge to turn and run. _“Si,_ Papa.”

After what felt like forever, Giovanni finally took his hand away and raised his eyes. “Come here, my son.” He pointed to a spot on the floor directly in front of his chair.

_Oh, I will surely get it now,_ Ezio thought, and crept minutely forward, seemingly unable to make his legs work properly.

“Ezio,” Giovanni said, a bit more sharply. “Come _here_.” He pointed again, the ruby ring on his index finger flashing in the light. _“Now,_ Ezio.”

The boy forced himself to obey, coming to stand on the exact spot indicated, his head lowered, certain he was walking toward his own doom. “Yes, Father.”

Giovanni's hand moved, and Ezio braced himself, closing his eyes tightly... but then he heard the jingling of coins in his father's money pouch, and then he felt a large, warm hand turn his own small one over and press the weight of several hundred florins into his trembling palm. “Here – go to the bootmaker at once and tell him you are buying a new pair of boots for me. He knows me well, and I am sure he will have something suitable.”

Ezio nodded. “Yes, Papa, of course.”

“And then, Ezio...” Giovanni folded his son's fingers around the coins firmly. “Tell him you need a new pair of boots as well. You may wear these for now, but go quickly, and please, my son – stay out of trouble.”

Ezio thanked his father graciously, stuffed his feet into his boots in such a rush he nearly lost his balance and toppled over, and ran all the way to the market.

He returned in a surprisingly short time, and presented Giovanni with a fine new pair of boots, which fit him perfectly and were of magnificent quality. “You have done very well, Ezio,” the elder Auditore proclaimed, and his son beamed with pride. “Show me your new boots.” Ezio obeyed, holding out first one foot and then the other. _“Molto bene.”_

“Thank you for the boots, Father,” Ezio said – without being prompted, much to Giovanni's delight. “I am very sorry I ruined your other ones. And mine as well. And... for... everything.” He risked a hopeful glance at his father – and was greatly relieved to see the familiar sparkle had returned to the man's eyes, his expression full of love.

“Come here, Ezio.” Giovanni held out a hand to his son, and this time Ezio obeyed immediately, coming to stand directly in front of his chair, just as before.

“Yes, Father.”

Giovanni put a kind hand on either side of Ezio's face, then pressed a kiss to the boy's brow. “We will speak no more of this. You are a _good_ boy, Ezio. You do get into mischief sometimes, _si_ \- but you are a good boy at heart, and you make your father proud.”

Unable to resist any longer, the younger Auditore threw his arms around his father's neck and hugged him tightly, as he had when he was a very small child. 

Giovanni returned the embrace, and after a moment, he withdrew to look into Ezio's eyes. “I never, _ever_ want to see you smoking again, my son. Do you understand this?”

“Yes, Father.”

Giovanni Auditore smiled at his young son. “Good. Now go to your rooms and do your studies. Go now.”

“Yes, Father.” Ezio embraced his father one last time and went to his room to study.

 

END.

**Author's Note:**

> My first Assassin's Creed fic, and the first in a short series that's been affectionately dubbed "Ezio Gets Busted". DJAGKFDJHGKFDHJKHJFC I HEART GIOVANNI. My Italian isn't the best, so if you spot a grammatical error or something, please feel free to leave me a comment about it so I can fix it. A note on the dialogue: some of the words, phrases, and grammatical constructions would be considered incorrect in our time, but were common in the late fifteenth century. I try to be as historically accurate as possible in my fics, so if something sounds weird, please let me know, and I'll try to fix that, too. ^^;;; 
> 
> And if you were wondering: yes, the lion-head chair thing is a nod to Marius's chair in Anne Rice's _The Vampire Armand_. I couldn't resist.
> 
> **amico / amico mio** \- friend / my friend  
>  **si** \- yes  
>  **vino** \- wine  
>  **merda** \- shit  
>  **palazzo** \- literally, palace; a very large home for a wealthy family  
>  **ser** \- sir  
>  **grazie** \- thank you  
>  **mercato** \- market  
>  **Madonna mia** \- literally, "my Madonna"; refers to the Virgin Mary, similar to "Mother of God"  
>  **va bene** \- okay  
>  **bene** \- good, well  
>  **ragazzo** \- young boy  
>  **messer** \- short for "messere", meaning "master"; archaic term of respectful address, no longer used  
>  **molto bene** \- very good, very well


End file.
